


Deciphering Me

by Kemmasandi



Series: In Which Old Friends Get Up To Dodgy Tricks [6]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Other, PNP, Sticky Sex, Tactile [maybe? XD], in which good things happen to Ratchet, kinkmeme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:25:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Optimus returns to the fold a changed mech. Ratchet carries out a routine medical check, which becomes anything but.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deciphering Me

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Deciphering Me  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Universe:** TF:Prime  
>  **Characters/Pairings:** Ratchet/Optimus Prime  
>  **Warnings:** PnP/sticky smut, terminal fluff
> 
>  **Summary:** Optimus returns to the fold a changed mech. Ratchet carries out a routine medical check, which becomes anything but.
> 
>  **> > Prompt:** _“Ratchet has such a happy that Optimus is alive and is excited to reunite with him when he gets back from the fight…but he wasn’t counting on the Forge’s upgrade. Namely, he wasn’t counting on how dead sexy he’d find Optimus after the Forge’s upgrade. He’s even bigger and stronger than before, and those wings? UNF. What’s a horny medic to do? Well, protocol does dictate that he give the Prime’s new mods a thorough examination to make sure everything is in proper working order, but this is one exam he’s going to have a VERY hard time keeping professional. And his wandering hands aren’t going to go unnoticed._
> 
>  
> 
> _TL; DR, post-upgrade medical exam turns into sex, with a possible side order of “thank Primus you aren’t dead" angst. Sticky vs. non-sticky is at author’s discretion. I prefer Optimus and Ratchet as an established couple, but first time with previously unrequited feelings on Ratchet’s part is good, too.”_
> 
> * * *
> 
> I’d been wanting to do something like this ever since Opti came back from the [nearly] dead. Perfect prompt was perfect. And it’s so close to fitting into what I had planned for Book Of Hours it’s not funny - namely, Persephone is all that’s missing :B
> 
> EDIT - apparently some of my dialogue's been eaten - currently fixing it. be warned.
> 
> * * *
> 
> ****

Ratchet tracked the return of Ultra Magnus’ strike ship until it crossed the state border, then set the computer to ping him with estimated arrival times every couple of minutes, scooped the children up from the console, and hurried outside to wait.

Fowler and June joined him in silence. Their vitals were elevated, and for once, he thought, it had nothing to do with the increased-stress reactions that had been so common this last week. Relief, rather – though in his case the word wasn’t even close to being strong enough to describe the intensity of the emotions which hammered through his beleaguered processor. 

For once, neither Miko nor Jack fussed to be put down, their tiny hands clutching at his servos as they leaned forward, their attention trained on the darkening sky.  
On the horizon a shadow appeared out of the setting sun, light glinting faint off smooth metal. Breezes rustled through the Harbinger’s wrecked foredeck, eerie and lonely. Under the whistle Ratchet began to notice the deep thrum of space-rated engines, just on the edge of hearing. 

His vents cranked wide open in anticipation, hydraulics tense.

Optimus was _alive._ That was all he could think, repeating on an infinite loop through his processor, thought queues chasing each other’s tails around emotional centers which creaked under the strain. His spark blazed with a ferocity he hadn’t felt in vorns, his EM field crackling around him with whiplash vibrancy. He needed to get himself under control before they landed, but every plate and cable in his frame was drawn close in feverish relief and he couldn’t focus through it enough to draw his field in. 

He drew a gusty intake and let it out in a sigh, but his spark refused to calm.  
The ship drew closer out of the sunset glow, deceptively fast in the manner of its class. Ratchet blinked, and it was above them in a rush of wind and roaring sound. Its engines thrummed loud and overwhelming as it decelerated, looping gracefully around the hill and its half-buried wreck. The thrum of its engines changed, growing louder as Magnus bled off the last of its forward momentum and swooped down to land in the open space beyond Fowler’s Harrier.

Ratchet bent to put the children down as the ship’s engines cooled. As soon as their feet touched the ground he was moving, straightening and slipping into an exhausted half-run towards the opening hull. 

Shapes appeared out of the gloom onboard – Smokescreen, ducking out ahead of everyone else, the austere bulk of Magnus, Bulkhead’s round shoulders. No red, though, no familiar Prime’s field reaching across the distance to greet him.

“Where is he?” Ratchet demanded as Ultra Magnus stepped stiffly onto the dry earth, Bulkhead’s servo a support at his back. Ratchet’s medical subsystems latched onto the dents and gashes in their armour, the bubbled pockmarks typical of Megatron’s fusion cannons on the Wrecker’ commander’s chassis, and in the back of his mind his autonomics began to put together a treatment plan. 

But there were things that were important, and then there were… others. “Where is Optimus?”

Miko chirped something, but it was drowned out by the sudden rumble of approaching jet engines. Ratchet half-turned, expecting with a sick clench of his park to see the bladed silver flash of Megatron’s altmode in the dying glow of the sunset.

Instead, something – something big, bigger than _Megatron_ – dropped from the sky, swooped down low to the ground and landed with an ungainly stumble. 

The mech—for it was a mech, the frame unfamiliar but definitely Cybertronian in origin—took several staggering steps forward, bleeding off the forward momentum he hadn’t been able to kill in-flight. Short wings flared out low on his back, the glow of jet turbines dying away as he straightened. He raised his helm, the piercing blue glow of his optics met Ratchet’s and suddenly Ratchet couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. 

It was Optimus, somehow, and yet not him at the same time. The proportions were all wrong, the legs shorter and thicker, the waist more solid. His shoulders were _massive_ , his chest broad and powerful, and yet on top of them his helm was the same as ever, tall audials framing an expressive face and blue, blue optics, bright in the dusk. They narrowed in concentration, focused on Ratchet, and then he was smiling, clear and honest, radiating happiness/relief/love from fifty feet away.

Ratchet’s processor groaned as it restarted, picked up the slack from the spooling threads of his thoughts. That was Optimus, beyond a doubt. 

He forced his limbs to move, long strides quickly eating up the distance between himself and his Prime. Optimus’ smile twitched wider, his wings— _wings?!_ —folding up close to his frame.

Primus, he was even bigger up close. All that power, condensed into one frame. Optimus reached out with both hands and laid them on Ratchet’s shoulders, and Ratchet wanted them to pull him close, to embrace him, audience be damned. He had to crane his head back to meet Optimus’ optics, though not much more so than usual. All that extra mass had gone to reinforcing rather than height – he wasn’t that much taller than Megatron after all, though considerably more… robust. 

Where had it all come from? Ratchet opened his mouth to speak, activated his vocaliser, but all that came out was an anguished croak. He reset it hurriedly, hating the way it clicked, a telling mark of his processor state.

“I’m here, Ratchet,” Optimus said, kneeling, as if that made it all okay. Even on his knees he was still taller, forcing Ratchet to angle his optics up. His voice was the same as ever, deep and rumbling, warmth in its timbre and affection in the curve of his lips. Pale silvery light glinted off the angles of his frame, the sun’s last gift lighting him up in electrum fingers.

And it did make it better, the stress of the past few days, the longest of Ratchet’s entire life, draining away under Optimus’ hands on his shoulders. Warmth spread through his frame, his neural net trying to measure the touch in ways that parsed with the intensity of emotion bleeding from his spark. 

“I didn’t dare hope,” he croaked, shaking his helm in helpless surrender. “I didn’t want to believe that you were dead, but I couldn’t have survived if I’d hoped and you hadn’t— Primus, if we’d discovered you’d died while I was wasting time hoping.”

“You have Smokescreen to thank for that.” Optimus’ mouth curved wryly, his optics dimming a shade. “I owe my continued life to his instincts.” His field caressed Ratchet’s, slowly, swelled with wavelengths of a foreign energy that gave him strength and vivacity of life he’d lacked since long before they’d ever arrived on this forsaken little mudball. The love in it was clear and unashamed, and it occurred to Ratchet that their little charade was broken wide open; there was no possible way the others could fail to guess at the extent of their relationship now. 

Somehow, that didn’t seem such a problem as it once might have.

To the Pit with the rest of them approaching somewhere behind Ratchet’s back. He stepped forward and wrapped himself in Optimus’ arms, resting his helm against that broad chest. “Then we both owe him.”

If Optimus was surprised, he didn’t show it. “I… am glad he chose the path he did,” he murmured, tightening his arms around Ratchet’s frame. “At the end, I was afraid. Not of death, but of leaving you behind.”

There was no possible answer to that. Ratchet tried to laugh, but it came out more like a sob. “I’m glad you’re back,” he settled for saying, pressing his forehelm against the flat planes of Optimus’ windshield. He could feel the pulse of Optimus’ spark through it, under the deep rumble of his massively powerful engine. It was unmistakeable. Optimus was alive.

At this moment in time, that was all Ratchet cared about.

* * *

Optimus ducked into the little storeroom at the far end of the medbay, poking his helm into the darkness beyond the doorframe in search of usable goods. The little wings draping low on his back twitched, the cables in the backs of his knees moving smoothly as he bent forward, further into the room.

Further up the double row of medical berths, Ratchet set his optical ridges and frowned.  
In the first few hours it had become clear to everyone just how much the new frame had changed Optimus. Gone was the effortless grace of the past, the precise movements, the surefooted ease with which he navigated a world which was almost too small for him. This new Prime stumbled, overshot, avoided coming within a few meters of the humans and consoles alike if he could possibly help it. As he came down off the battle-protocol high his servos began to tremble minutely, his plating fanning out and gapping open as if he were overheating. 

He hid it well, keeping himself busy carrying crates of salvaged tech from the Harbinger’s bridge to Magnus’ ship while everyone else worked on dismantling the old wreck – but Ratchet had been watching, and nothing was hidden from a medic’s optics.

He’d caught up to Optimus in the Harbinger’s medbay, in the early hours of the morning. It was not the ideal time for a checkup, but the next few days were going to be hectic if the constant ringing of Fowler’s cellphone was anything to go by, and he’d be damned if he was going to let Optimus face them without a clean bill of health.

Reformatting did tend to have that effect on people. Ratchet had attended any number of newly re-embodied mecha over the vorns, and to a mech they’d all had similar problems. Optimus also had the dubious honor of having had his transition performed by what was as close to a god as Ratchet would admit existed, the impossible intelligence of the Matrix and the Forge combined. 

Whether this would be help or hindrance was yet to be discerned.

It was easier than he’d expected to corral the Prime: he’d simply waited until Optimus arrived to pick up the tech Ratchet had been stripping out of the medbay, then shut the door.

Optimus blinked at him, owlish confusion in the set of his optics. “Ratchet,” he said slowly, “you realise I will need through there.”

“Yes, but not for a while,” Ratchet replied, manually locking the door. They’d likely have privacy anyway; everyone else was hard at work elsewhere, humans included, but he’d prefer not to be walked in on if he could help it. Physical exams could be… involved, and it was bad enough that he’d already caught Wheeljack and June Darby both giving him Looks of a meaningful nature whenever he looked at Optimus. (June’s at least had merely been knowing and somewhat sympathetic; the Wrecker’s had been downright lewd. And had earned him a long stint down in the ship’s storerooms, a satisfying revenge if not particularly imaginative.) 

Optimus gave him a searching look. “Might I enquire as to why that is?”

Ratchet waved a servo towards him, the gesture taking in Optimus’ changed frame from hips to massive shoulders. “Standard protocol for reformats is a thorough systems check to make sure everything’s taken as it should. I know you’ve already fought on it, but battle-capable and medically-certified are two very different things.”

“True enough,” admitted Optimus, who had fought on less than 50% of operational standard before, and probably would have to do so again before the war was over. 

He approached slowly, carefully, towering over Ratchet, and gave the dusty old medbay a quick scan. “It cannot wait until we are settled elsewhere?”

“No!” Ratchet said, sharper than he’d intended. He flashed a silent apology through his field, shaking his helm. “No, if I let you go now you’ll be kept busy for the next few weeks, I suspect, and then what happens if during that time you find out the hard way that something’s not as it should be?”

“I see.” Optimus sighed through his vents, but his EM field acknowledged Ratchet’s apologetic pulse with a soft flare of violet-tinted affection. The quiet hum of his systems was clearly audible in the quiet room, his engine purring away at a healthy rate. Somehow, Ratchet doubted he was going to find anything other than the usual post-reformat jitters, but the wordless acquiescence in Optimus’ field told him he wasn’t the only one who wanted to be _sure._

The Harbinger’s lights flickered – they’d managed to get them going in the less-damaged areas of the ship, but millennia of disuse alongside systems damage elsewhere had taken their toll. Shadows chased across Optimus’ frame ahead of each flash, casting each new dip and seam of his frame in a stark contrast of light and dark.

An unexpected thrill of heat went through Ratchet’s circuits. 

Unlike Orion Pax, Optimus Prime’s frame had never been conventionally attractive. His lower torso and legs had been too slim and long in proportion to his heavy shoulders and chest, his proportions skewed towards his extremities a gangly manner reminiscent of a half-grown sparkling. It had nevertheless served him ideally in battle, giving him speed and agility to counterbalance Megatron’s massive power, but his frame type was aegis dexter, meant for physical labour, and the conventional view of dexterly beauty had always run towards thicker than thinner. (Ratchet suspected the humans disagreed, judging by June Darby’s initial reaction to Optimus. _That_ had been a little awkward, up until he’d gotten to know the little nurse and realised she was mostly joking.)

It had been for the most part Optimus’ force of personality that made him beautiful, that drew out Ratchet’s base reactions and made his spark and field flare with desire. The gangly, half-grown frame made little difference when Optimus looked at him like _that_ , with optics banked in quiet regard, love in every peak and dip of his wavelength. 

_This_ frame however, had gone back through ‘conventionally attractive’ and almost come out the other side. Ratchet quickly measured the approximate difference between Optimus’ waist and shoulders, and came up with the conclusion that he’d never seen anything like it before. 

Optimus’ limbs had become thick and massive, his forearms almost as thick around as his old frame’s waist, and everything else proportional to it; his legs thick and heavy, his knees and ankle joints with visible shock absorbers, reminding Ratchet of the heavy fliers he’d had to treat back in the early days of the war. It made sense, he supposed – the tips of Optimus’ wings peeked out from behind the Prime’s back, reminding him of the new gift the Forge had left with him.

 _Primus._ He hadn’t seen an Autobot flier for a very long time. 

His tastes always had run to the bigger frames, he recalled from the days when he’d been able to devote processor space to such inconsequential thoughts. Even so, there was something about all that new bulk that was fascinating – exciting, almost. Optimus looked as though he could pick Ratchet up in one hand, a thought that set his spark whirling in sudden arousal, his fans opening up a notch further as his systems gathered heat.

 _Primus and the Pit._ This might be a little harder than he’d thought.

Optimus ambled over to the rank of larger medberths on the other wide of the room, turning to Ratchet with a knowing light in his optics. 

“Well, old friend? Shall I consign myself to your care now, or would you rather continue to observe from a distance?”

“Cheeky slagger,” Ratchet muttered. Relief amplified the amusement tenfold, until he found he had to fight down a smirk. He joined Optimus by the berth, catching the Prime’s forearms as he tried to sit down. “No, stay standing, we’ll do tension and joint mobility first.” 

Optimus nodded, his field relaxed and rippling with good humour. His expression went blank for a moment as he opened his ventral interface panel, giving Ratchet access to his medical ports. Ratchet plugged in, his medical protocols giving him access to Optimus’ systems on all but spark-deep levels.

He wasn’t prepared for it. Optimus’ processor had always been complex and powerful, but as a rule he kept his coding tidy and seldom tinkered with his programs barring where they conflicted with the Matrix’s interests.

Yet this time it was a mess. Existing code trees had splintered and the pieces transplanted onto other related but wholly discrete sections of programming. Entirely new ones had sprung up, some leading back to the ancient knot of commands that was the Matrix, others leading into nowhere. In places he found branches which had withered entirely, markers of just how close to death Optimus had come. It was terrifying in a way he’d never encountered before, threatening to drive him out of his medical protocols entirely.

 _// Too close //_ Ratchet thought, clutching at Optimus’ waist to ground himself. Optimus’ own systems pulsed wholesparked agreement, a flare of remembered fear at the approaching numbness of spark death.

 _// You need a good defrag //_ he sent, distracting himself with tidying up as much of the mess as he could for now. _// And I don’t care if the Joint Chiefs want a personal chat, as soon as we get to this new base Fowler’s trying to magic up, you’re going to lie down and give yourself at least twenty-four hours’ worth of recharge on top of it. //_

Optimus’ thoughts drew in opposite directions, torn between the urge of his frame to follow Ratchet’s advice and rest, and the knowledge that duty forbade him from doing so. _// Don’t make me make it a medical requirement //_ Ratchet added. _// What we need most is you in optimal condition, and if the humans can’t see that then they’re not worth their salaries. //_  
He clipped a last line of dead code and drew back from Optimus’ programming, turning his attention to the Prime’s neural net and automatic diagnostic centre. _// Lean forward against the table, and put as much of your weight as you can on your arms. We’ll start with your right leg. //_

Optimus waited with his usual patience as Ratchet manipulated the limb into different positions, measuring the joint’s mobility range and scanning the underlying substructure. While the reformat had given him weight and power surpassing anyone left in the war, the sheer mass and new distribution of it had required a massive overhaul of his skeletal configuration. Extra reinforcing struts were as far as it went, as far as Ratchet could see, but without a concrete blueprint plan to check it against he couldn’t be sure. Optimus’ old frame hadn’t been much better, granted. Back then, though, he’d had time and resources with which to familiarise himself with it. 

The joints themselves were not as inflexible as he had thought, and their metal and the cables and hydraulic systems which operated them were of an incredible grade, tensile strength and durability measuring well above standard. While Optimus might look unwieldy, he would be deceptively fast and agile in battle. Perhaps not as much as he’d been, but if he was lucky, enough to give him an advantage against anyone short of Megatron.

The wings and jet turbines on his back caught Ratchet’s optics. Unlike most other fliers, he had two pairs: one set low on his back, wide and relatively large but fixed in place, and a higher secondary set, small and swept-back with delicate sensors in the ailerons. The second set compensated for his lack of a tailfin, Ratchet guessed. He reached out to touch them sweeping his palms over their flat upper surface with a wondering regard. 

Optimus’ field twitched under the caress. He turned to glance over his shoulder at Ratchet, who huffed a short, embarrassed exvent and moved on, charge crawling under his plating. 

He had to ask Optimus to sit down on the berth in order to reach his shoulders. // _You’re so big_ // he thought helplessly, shaking his helm. _// I’m going to have to climb all over you just to kiss you. //_

 _// To which I would have no objection //_ came the echoing rejoinder, rolling down the connection accompanied by glyph packets rich with affection. Optimus watched with gentle interest as Ratchet tested each of the individual joints in his servos, closing his fist as tight as the mechanisms would allow then bending the digits back just to the edge of discomfort, noting the results down on a datapad.

If his servos lingered a little, well, Optimus could hardly blame him. He’d not been able to touch his mate in almost a full orn; had had to face the terrible reality that he might well never do so again. Each touch was a tactile reassurance that Optimus was alive and well, chasing the fear from a mind that was still so very reluctant to hope.

Time passed, deceptively quickly. It was four in the morning before Ratchet stepped back, his optics narrowed. _// In theory you’ve not lost much actual joint mobility, but with your added mass you’re going to be doing a lot less running and jumping all over the battlefield. Find your limits quickly, and for the love of Primus do not push them. Not until I find a way to replace components of this caliber if needs be, anyway. //_

 _// Your concern is noted //_ Optimus said, a polite way of saying ‘I’ll try to but I have no way of knowing whether circumstances will allow me to do so, so no promises.’

Ratchet huffed, lowering his brows in an unimpressed glare. _// I mean it. This— //_ he tapped the underlying mechanisms of Optimus’ knee, making the Prime twitch, _// —is mostly a purer grade of cybertronium than I’ve had access to for millennia. If you break it, I can’t replace it. //_

The expression on Optimus’ face darkened, the corners of his mouth pulling downward. _// There are no metals available on this planet which can be used as a substitute? //_

 _// Barring possibly the production of experimental carbon alloys, I’m not aware of any. Some come close in certain qualities, but lack others. //_ Ratchet placed his servos palm-down on Optimus’ thighs, thumbs tracing idle patterns on the armor. _// Your weapons – send me the readouts from the battle at Darkmount. //_

Ratchet let himself lean forward as he read them, Optimus’ massive hands coming up to bracket his shoulders, an extra layer of security. Optimus’ armament had been bolstered: a second arm cannon built into his left forearm, drawing charge straight from his spark. The coding for it was relatively simple, tied into his grafted weapons relays with a basic neural trigger. 

Optimus’ grip on his shoulders shifted, jarring his concentration. Warmth spread through his neural net at the gentle pressure.

He shuttered his optics for a moment, tightening his hands on Optimus’ thighs. His field pushed out, sinking tentative pulses into the welcoming shiver of the Prime’s vibrant aura. Optimus eased him closer, parting his thighs to allow Ratchet between them.

Ratchet’s field flared with vivid need. He opened his optics again and leaned back, dragging his servos down the Prime’s legs. Sensors fired under his palms, pleasure drifting through Optimus’ neural net as he watched.

Optimus smiled again, unfairly composed despite it. _// I believe you might be getting a little distracted, old friend. //_

 _// Hardly //_ Ratchet scoffed. _// I know exactly what I’m doing. //_

He felt the lines of transformation seams under his digits and pushed down on them, scraping his fingertips up towards the juncture of Optimus’ legs. _// Do you have a problem with it? //_

The servos at his shoulders stroked down his sides in revenge, coming to rest at his waist. Optimus’ field pulsed a sweet negative. He half-shuttered his optics, refocusing them on Ratchet’s. _// You are very distracted //_ he sent, and it was a mental purr, his field darkening with anticipation. _// Is this part of the exam? //_

 _// Perhaps. //_ Ratchet reached up to Optimus’ neck, palming the exposed crook of his shoulder. The primary interface port should be about here – there, next to the faint throb of an energon vein close to the surface. _// I am still not satisfied that you are in working order, after all. //_

Optimus rumbled pleasantly as Ratchet rubbed the pads of three fingers over the spot, leaning forward and down to give him better access. His own servos wandered, sweeping across Ratchet’s sides, behind his door kibble and up into the less well-armored places just underneath his arms. A precise stroke, and Ratchet stiffened, lifting up onto the toes of his pedes and pressing into the touch.

 _// In that case, we must be thorough, mustn’t we? //_ Wet heat engulfed the tip of Ratchet’s chevron – Optimus, the utter cad, suckled lightly before drawing back, planting a chaste kiss to the crown of Ratchet’s helm. Ratchet buried the fingers of one hand in the gap between thigh and hip frames, while the other pulled his Prime down into a proper kiss.

Optimus let him guide it, pressing his mouth soft against Ratchet’s and opening meekly when Ratchet’s glossa flickered against his lips. _// I was afraid I’d never get to feel this again //_ he said, his grip on Ratchet’s waist tightening fractionally. _// I love you. I don’t say it enough, but I love you so much. //_

He made as if to draw back, but Ratchet clung to him, for once refusing to let him go. 

Their frames shuddered, taut with shared emotion. The medical connection was limited out of professional necessity, but enough leaked through that Ratchet could feel the terrible intensity of the emotions Optimus held back. Terror, resignation, the dogged tenacity with which he’d clung to life, the love for everything he had to live for. He held on, the kiss becoming something raw and needy. He couldn’t reply, couldn’t tell Optimus without becoming inexplicably tongue-tied, but the way his field reached out for Optimus, that spoke for itself. He hoped.

Gradually it ebbed, the wave of remembered helplessness draining from the connection. Optimus drew back, and his lips were wet with their oral fluid, drawn into a tender smile. Ratchet let his helm tilt forward, pressing his forehead against Optimus’, chevron to crest. 

The heat radiating off the pair of them was considerable. He shifted in Optimus’ embrace, his fans cranking wider. He could feel the vibrations of Optimus’ heavy flight engine, a deep throb pulsing through the Prime’s plating. Charge coiled in his abdomen, heat flashing from his spark. He looked up into Optimus’ blue, blue optics, and saw it echoed in the eager slant of his optics.

Fingers popped his primary interface cover, blunt digits tracing the sensitive rims of his ports. He bit back a moan, raising a wry optic ridge at his partner. 

Optimus merely smiled, and pressed down on him to the edge of pain. Ratchet’s plating drew tight then shuddered out all at once, the tiny platelets around his port rims rippling excitedly. Optimus teased them with feather-light touches that had the tips of his jacks slipping from their housings, then ground down again, wringing a strangled cry from Ratchet.

 _// You know, that’s supposed to be me doing that //_ Ratchet said, once his vocals had steadied. He gave Optimus a sharp look, which was returned with innocent skepticism.

_// Teasing you, you mean? //_

_// Teasing_ you // Ratchet clarified, fingering the seam around the corresponding port array on Optimus’ shoulder. _// You are after all the one I’m supposed to be examining. //_

Optimus’ field flared out, wrapping them both in tendrils of effervescent pleasure. _// I see //_ he said. One servo slid down Ratchet’s frame, cupping around the curve of his aft. _// Perhaps, then, it would be mutually beneficial if we reached a compromise. //_

 _// What exactly would this compromise be? >>_ Ratchet dug his fingertips into the seam, and it popped open, Optimus’ connectors automatically sliding into his hand. Charge crackled around the tips, tickling the sensors in his palms. 

Optimus’ massive servo wrapped around his wrist, guiding it between them to Ratchet’s ports. _// I propose you…_ examine _me to your spark’s content, but in return you will frag me through the berth when I ask for it. One never knows when we will have another opportunity like this. //_

The tip of his first connector brushed against the rim of Ratchet initial port, charge jumping across the gap between their frames. Ratchet’s helm fell back, his optics shuttering as he gasped. Fingers caressed his neck, following the line of the cables up under his chin. 

_// You talk the talk well enough, but you’re not sticking to your end of the bargain very well //_ Ratchet observed, the tail end of the sentence dissolving into static as Optimus dipped fingers into the joint of his hip and thigh. He reset his optics and gave his partner a weak glare. _// You’re lucky I don’t feel particularly inclined to walk away. //_

 _// I will do my best to comply better //_ Optimus said, smiling obediently down at him.

Ratchet huffed and shook his helm as he rocked forward against Optimus’ frame, focusing on the lower edge of the Prime’s windshield and pressing that first connector into himself. His port resized to fit, clamping down convulsively over the slightly-too-large invader; his vocaliser bled a static whimper as connection programs knitted their upper minds together, Optimus’ thoughts and whims laid bare to him. He tensed up as a wash of foreign arousal flowed through him, Optimus’ desire dragging at parts of him usually kept well-hidden. 

The two secondary connectors pushed home, and the dribble of charge became a river. Ratchet arched and fought back, heat pooling under his armor at chest and groin. It was overwhelming, far more than he’d expected, than Optimus had once had to give.

Optimus must have sensed something of it, because the flood dried up and left Ratchet gasping against his chassis like a fish out of water. _// Are you alright? //_ he asked, bracing Ratchet as his legs began to waver. _// Perhaps we should take precautions. This frame seems to be a higher-charge type than I am used to. //_

 _// You couldn’t have warned me before we hooked up? //_ Ratchet grumbled. _// On second thought, don’t answer that – I should have guessed. Flightframes generally are high-charge. //_ He let himself slump into Optimus’ arm, marveling quietly at the ease with which Optimus held him.

 _// I had not anticipated it myself //_ Optimus replied, chagrined apology clear as day in his field. _// I do not want to hurt you. //_

 _// You won’t and you didn’t //_ Ratchet reassured him, curling his fingers against the broad planes of Optimus’ chest. _// I was just… unprepared for it. //_

Optimus hummed softly, his engine shifting up a gear into something Ratchet’s interface protocols decided to interpret as seductive. He shifted, his pelvic array fetching up against Ratchet’s and grinding. _// Will you be alright? //_

 _// Of course //_ Ratchet replied, glancing up at him. He hooked his servos over Optimus’ shoulders, pulling gently, his arms not quite long enough to loop around Optimus’ neck anymore. 

Optimus caught his drift quickly, pulling Ratchet up into his lap. He leant back, one forearm braced against the berth, his other servo guiding Ratchet into place between his legs. His wings shuddered against the berthtop as Ratchet draped himself over every part of Optimus he could reach, fingertips mapping the blocky contours of Optimus’ frame, delving deep under armor in search of hot spots. Huge servos reciprocated, tracing down his neck, his shoulders and sides. Optimus’ frame under him was hot and receptive, licks of charge crawling over exposed wiring in the gaps between his external plating. Ratchet pressed a kiss to the central seam of his chest plates, and felt the eager thrum of his spark through them.

Optimus vented a puff of scalding air, his mouth opening in a silent gasp as Ratchet prodded a sensor cluster just above his hip. “Primus,” he murmured, lowering himself fully to the berth. Lubricant was beginning to seep through the closed panels at his groin, slow rolling drips gathering on the berth underneath them. He relaxed his field, and it coiled around Ratchet’s like a leviathan, wet with ready heat.

Ratchet smirked into his chest, rolling his hips hard against Optimus’ array. Metal squealed and grated, his pressure gauges translating the tactile data into liquid pleasure. Optimus arched and moaned aloud underneath him. Again, and he began a languid rhythm, punctuating each grind of their arrays with open-palm caresses near the base of Optimus’ primary wings.

A struggled chuckle from the frame underneath him, a hard grind upwards into his movements. A tsunami of data crashed over him, subsuming him in tactile pleasure. The heat curled up somewhere low in his chest and flooded south, his spike array roaring online with a ferocity he couldn’t quite hold back. His interface panel retracted with a sharp snick that went unheard beneath the stressed rumble of their engines, his spike pressurising so quickly it hurt.

Optimus raised his helm just high enough to smile down at Ratchet. He reached between their bodies, down to Ratchet’s spike where it pressed heavy against his pelvic frame, glistening in the flickering light with Ratchet’s internal lubricant. He gave it a considering touch, light and teasing, then wrapped his fingers around the shaft and gave it a loose pump.

Ratchet shuddered and pushed up into his hand, his optics offlining as his tactile centres registered the gentle pressure. _Pit_ that was good, Optimus’ servo was warm and tight, sliding up off the tip of him then pushing back down around the base, almost big enough that he could engulf the entire length. Optimus rubbed the pad of his thumb against the head, smearing through beads of early transfluid. Heat flared magnesium-bright in his array; Ratchet slumped over him, resting his forehelm against Optimus’ chest and gasping through vents throttled open as wide as they’d go. 

“Stop it,” he managed, his vocaliser stalling mid-word. “Stoppit, you’re going to make me overload.”

“That is the plan,” Optimus replied aloud, and if his voice dropped any lower it’d be infrasonic, deep enough to reverberate through Ratchet’s systems in an echoing shock of vibration. He’d paused, though, and it gave Ratchet just enough time to collect his bearings and push himself up from his strutless sprawl across the Prime’s chest before Optimus resumed his ministrations.

“Well, it’s not mine,” Ratchet said peevishly, prying Optimus’ servo off. “What happened to trying to compromise?”

“Do you know, I think you’re the only mech I’ve ever known to complain about being given a handjob.” Optimus gave him an enigmatic smile when Ratchet raised an optic ridge at the term. _// There is a first time for everything, it seems. //_

“I’m hardly complaining,” he pointed out, pushing Optimus’ thighs further apart. “Furthermore, you can hardly blame me for wanting to last a little longer, particularly as you will benefit from me doing so yourself.”

“So I will,” Optimus agreed, clutching at Ratchet’s waist as the medic pushed his knees up and open. A light, teasing stroke over his array panel and he shuddered, a low rumble ebbing from deep in his chest.

 _// Open up //_ Ratchet ordered, tapping lightly on the central seam. Metal hummed with charge beneath his digits, Optimus’ legs tried to draw closed but Ratchet’s own body was in the way. They scraped against each other, arrays almost but not quite touching. Ratchet’s spike throbbed, hard enough that it very nearly hurt. He dug the fingers of one servo into the gap between thigh and pelvic frame, stroking over exposed protoform and slipping into sensitive crevasses, making the Prime arch and moan. Optimus’ fingers tightened on his hips, pressure making Ratchet narrow his optics. Wings shuddered against the berth, the tight rattle of metal on metal thrumming through their merged fields.

Eventually, finally, Optimus could take it no longer. His panel tessellated open, punctuated with a sharp cry as Ratchet pressed the tips of two digits between his external folds and spread them open. The slick wet ring of his entrance glistened between them, cycling wider almost eagerly.

“Ohhh,” Optimus sighed, his hips lifting, pressing upwards into Ratchet’s touch. Data flowed down the hardline – tactile, the feeling of Ratchet’s fingers on him, in him. His valve clenched, lubricant flowing from his depths. Ratchet’s own moistened in sympathy, charge rerouting from his spike as the data echo baffled his priority trees.

One servo tightened on Ratchet’s plating, the other releasing and gliding across the span of his pelvic plating to grasp his spike. _// In me, Ratchet //_ Optimus sent, his field dripping charge, raw need flooding the basal layers of his mind.

Ratchet shifted into position as best he could, the head of his spike nudging against the wet folds of Optimus’ entrance. The narrow aperture cycled open under the slightest pressure, burning hot and wet and still so very tight for the size of him. He bent and pressed a kiss to the central seam between Optimus’ windshield panes, the highest on him he could reach. Optimus’ legs closed around him, drawing him close.

 _// I love you //_ he thought, and pushed forward. 

Tight as he was, Optimus opened around him with a desperate readiness, his internal calipers fluttering as they settled and were stretched open again with each new thrust. Trigger nodes connected inside, Ratchet’s array lighting up as Optimus’ charge flowed into him. He had no words for it, the nuclear heat that burst inside him at the sight of his oldest and closest friend writhing underneath him, the shared desire that bled through their joined minds, the way it all felt so inexplicably _right._

He hooked one arm behind Optimus’ knee, his Prime’s hands clenching spasmodically at him as he lifted, arranging Optimus’ leg over his shoulder. The position was somewhat awkward but the tilt of Optimus’ hips was something divine. He took Ratchet’s next thrust with an ecstatic arch of his back, his vocaliser cracking on a real scream. His thoughts whirled, indecipherable, his field stormy and electric. He clawed at Ratchet’s back, paint scraping and sharp discomfort flaring bright under his servos. 

Ratchet raised himself on shaking arms and glanced up to Optimus’ face. Optimus’ optics were shuttered, closing tight and relaxing as waves of charge washed through their joined arrays. His mouth fell open in a soft moan as Ratchet hilted himself and ground up against Optimus’ external components, sparks crawling over their frames. Flight engines roared, the vibrations washing through Optimus’ body and into Ratchet’s and it was too much, too good. Ratchet let himself fall back onto Optimus, grinding the heels of his palms against the base of Optimus’ wings. His Prime let out a staticky string of binary beeps and whistles, vocaliser juddering on a broken rendition of Ratchet’s name. His valve bore down, wet and hot and virgin-tight.

A stray thought brushed up against him, and Ratchet came with a choked shout. His hydraulics tensed, driving him deep into Optimus and holding him there as his spike systems surged and his transfluid flooded into Optimus. The electrical discharge peaked and Optimus shuddered around him, valve cycling down in loose ripples that went on and on until the surge abated and left them to exhausted bliss.

Ratchet lay over Optimus’ abdomen for almost a minute before his systems recovered enough to allow him to disentangle himself. He let Optimus’ leg down from its awkward position slung over his shoulder, and under him he felt Optimus sigh, the hardline flooding with the sweet ache of his body’s satisfaction.

He didn’t want to move. But there were things to be done, important things, more important than lying here and growing old with Optimus. The world hadn’t ended, he’d survived, and the business of living had to come first.

Ratchet cranked his ventilation fans up a notch. Moist heat spilled from his internals and condensed in the cooler air of the medbay, drifting in wisps of steam into the air currents playing over their frames. Propping himself up on hands and knees, he eased himself out of Optimus, something in him ticking as his systems cooled down.

Optimus reached between them and gingerly touched the sticky mess at his valve, his optics widening and his mouth curving into a loose, soft smile as he felt Ratchet’s spike slip free of him. His vocaliser clicked, reset, once and then twice before he said, almost wryly, “I hope your examination produced satisfactory results, old friend. I am not sure I could stand a second opinion at this time.” 

“What sort of scientist would I be if I relied on a single set of data?” Ratchet said pointedly, watching with narrowed optics as Optimus circled the rim of his valve with a hesitant digit, optics narrowing and intakes working. Ratchet felt the flare of aching pleasure/pain in his own neural net as he pressed a little hard against a sore spot on the metalmesh near his anterior cluster, but Optimus stiffened and cried out against the full force of the sensation. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Optimus waited for a moment to respond, cracking his optics open and wrapping a fond fold of his field around Ratchet. “I am indeed. Simply a little confused – I overloaded, but my array still seems to be charged.”

Ah. Ratchet snickered inwardly, not bothering to hide the flash of amusement from Optimus, and mentally diagnosed him with another, rarer symptom of reformatting – stress arousal.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” he explained when Optimus frowned and brushed curiosity over his field. “Sometimes – particularly with major changes in charge level and groundframe-to-flightframe reformats – it takes your systems a little while to adjust. Charge will collect in what we call the stress systems: engines, weapons arrays in soldiers, and spark and physical interface arrays. You might find your battle protocols and weapons stay charged a little longer than they should, as well.”

“Hmm.” Optimus tilted his hips up, his valve array – dripping their mingled fluids, still giving off ready heat – on clear display. “You can’t help speed up the process?” 

It took almost more self-control than Ratchet had to give to curl his fists up against Optimus’ thighs and say, “Optimus, if I do that, it’ll just take longer for your systems to adjust. You really don’t want that.”

When he dared open his optics again. Optimus was staring up at the ceiling with an almost peeved look on his face. “That is unfortunate,” he murmured. “We shall just have to acclimatise me quickly, then.”

Ratchet nodded, sitting up on his haunches and depressurising his spike. He could do very little about the sticky mess festooning his groin and thighs – but Primus forbid he went out in public with the evidence of their little tryst drying on his plating. Perhaps if they were lucky there might be some mesh wipes in the cupboards he’d not investigated yet.

He could take some solace in the fact that Optimus needed it more than he did.

The Prime shot him an odd look as the thought drifted over the hardline. Ratchet brought up the exit programs before his mind could drift further, disconnecting Optimus’ jacks from his ports with a slow jolt of loneliness as he was suddenly the only one in his mind again.

He scrambled out from between Optimus’ legs and dropped off the berth with all the gracelessness of the recently-overloaded. A moment to regain control over field and frame, and he headed to the cupboards to look for those wipes. If he couldn’t find anything, they might end up having to lick each other clean.

Not that that would be all that horrible, but if they did he was going to have a Pit of a time restraining certain parts of his frame.

Proximity scanners watched as Optimus drew his legs together with a barely-noticeable wince, rising into a slumped sit and propping himself up on his arms. It took him a fraction of the time to rein in his field, but if Ratchet was any judge of Primely body language the stress arousal hadn’t died off a jot. He shifted forward and back, from side to side, his legs conspicuously still as he tried to stop himself from squirming his thighs together in an attempt to bleed off the excess charge.

“Here we go,” Ratchet muttered, his attention drawn back to the cupboard. Mesh wipes, still sealed in their original packet, sitting on the top shelf right at the back. He reached for it – and discovered he wasn’t tall enough. His elbow caught on the edge of the shelf, and even balancing on the tips of his pedes his fingertips just fell short of the prize.

A servo against his lumbar plating caught him by surprise. Optimus reached into the cupboard and dropped the pack of wipes into Ratchet’s hand. He was smiling faintly, the expression one Ratchet highly suspected went along with thoughts like ‘cute’. 

“If you say a single thing to Wheeljack I will reformat you into a tram,” he warned, scowling ferociously. 

Optimus smiled gracefully. “Very well, I shall not.” His optics glimmered, and before Ratchet knew it he was being picked up, pushed against the cupboard door, and kissed thoroughly. Autonomics wrapped his legs around Optimus’ waist, his joints straining as his thighs were pushed wide by the Prime’s girth. His interface protocols perked up at the promise of a second round.

He wanted it, wanted Optimus so much it hurt. “Enough, enough,” he panted as Optimus drew back, resting their forehelms together. “We really don’t have the time right now. They’ll be wondering where you’ve disappeared off to.”

“I doubt that, given what Smokescreen told me when I came here,” Optimus murmured, his voice low and rich, sending shivers through Ratchet’s protoform. “You are right, nevertheless.”

He released Ratchet with a regretful twist of his field, setting him down on the floor with a last quick press of mouths. “I will have to be patient. It may be several months before we can gain access to facilities where we are able to be private, unfortunately.”

“You waited vorns for me before. You’ll manage a few months easily.” Ratchet tore open the top of the packet, handing a few of the wipes to Optimus. “Here, clean yourself up before you go back to that pack of gossips. I’ll be in here for the rest of the night, if you get a spare bit of time for yourself.”

“Thank you,” Optimus smiled. The wipes looked like rags in his hands, but together they managed to clean up the worst of the fluids streaked down his legs and aft. “I will be sure to visit.”

***


End file.
